


Salud

by crystal_mamaleh



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:10:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystal_mamaleh/pseuds/crystal_mamaleh
Summary: aaahhh so you’re a seasoned barista trying to equally woo and challenge a mystery guest??(***content notice for brief explicit language***)





	Salud

Wednesday

You wore your crystals to work that day: Opalite, malachite, and obsidian, in that order, descending sternum-wise. You were well-aware all your crystal jewelry was likely synthesized in a lab with unethically sourced semi-organic parts, but you liked the pretty colors and they made you feel powerful.  
While your partner was still on a lunch break, you would hold down the fort alone, and in this case the fort was one of the tiniest cafés in Brooklyn in the middle of a heatwave. It was more so, waiting for paint to dry.  
The bells above the door jingle as it swings open, and out of your periphery you see a feminine figure in all black in the doorway, almost hesitating, as you’re bussing a table in the lobby.  
“Please come in, you’re letting out the cool air!” You ask in a welcoming tone, yet you turn to make a beeline to your ice bin behind the bar.  
There’s a slight huff from the woman, and you hear the closing of the door, followed by boots falling heavily on the wood floors, then the barstool swiftly being dragged out as your guest sits. The ice water is just about topped off, and you reach for a straw. “Let me start you with this, but please let me know if there’s anything else-“ You catch yourself, “- you’re interested in.”  
Her face stops you immediately. Stoic, tired, the face of a woman who has perpetually seen enough, had enough. Brown eyes captivated you in a way in which you weren’t sure if you should have been making eye contact or not.  
She reaches out, swinging the glass to her lips, bypassing the provided straw completely, without breaking your gaze. You hold the line of sight, waiting patiently as she drains the glass in five glugs. In between lowering it from her lips and setting it down on the counter, she rattles off in a husky monotone, “Straws pollute the oceans.” She ends her sentence with a hand brushing her dark hair off her face, uncovering flushed cheeks, and a small scar on her right brow. You glance from it quickly, meaning not to stare.  
“Yes,” you agree, filling up the glass once more upon considering she may be dehydrated, “but not nearly to the degree as commercial fishing line and net.”  
Her expression is unchanged, if not slightly more fazed out than before. She mindlessly kicks the second helping back.  
You continue, “Don’t get it twisted, I think what humans make should be as biodegradable as possible, but don’t beat yourself up.”  
“Doppio.”  
You give the slightest nod, and have just finished grinding the coffee beans when her phone chimes. She glances at the screen, and you look in time to see her roll her eyes before adding on,  
“... Con panna.”  
Everything from this encounter so far has piqued your curiosity. “Is this... for someone else? The espresso will have gone bad by the time you’re out the door.”  
“It’s for me, lost a bet, not explaining, and don’t want to be here longer than I have to,” She covers the sentence in one breath.  
You dampen what was nearly a smile. “I’ll provide the silent barista experience if you’d prefer.”  
“Sure.”  
You were pleased with yourself for your wit, and you were confident that your guest’s coldness was some kind of façade.  
So she waited, leaning forward but taking in her surroundings. She wasn’t impatient, in fact despite her pursed lips, she took in your decor with mild intrigue as the caramel-colored coffee before you flowed down into the small mug. “Too many plants in here.”  
“Not much more than outside,” You laughed, stealing another playful glance the woman’s way; her eyes were trained on you, seeming to size you up.  
It was true there was an abundance of botanicals in your shop. “You’re very observant,” You continue.  
“Gotta be. It’s part of my job.”  
The cup fills, you finish with a dollop of whipped cream, and present the finished product swiftly before her. “... It’ll taste best if you drink it right away.”  
After briefly eyeing the cup, she brings it to her lips and kicks back the few ounces of espresso and the whipped cream — quickly thumbing the leftover _panna_ from her upper lip. She seems to think you don’t notice, as you’re emptying the exhausted grinds from your machine. You quietly clean your area, carefully retrieving the empty cup and the saucer before her, yet her gaze follows the dishes with eyes slightly narrowed. And yet, her shoulders relax, receding slightly from her ears.  
“... That’s delicious,” She concludes, flatly.  
“Good. It’s on me,” You lean very gently against the side of the espresso machine, pleased with your work.  
“Really.” It’s more of an inquiry than a statement. Her eyes flick back to the machine, seeming to consider another shot or two.  
A smile threatens to break your lips, but you catch it in time as your gaze falls to her toned arms, folded on the countertop. Suddenly she sits up straight, raises her head slightly and looks down her nose at you, failing to hide the smile in her gaze.  
“ ‘preciate it.”  
“D’mention it,” And you pass a small shrug in her direction.  
And then, as she’s standing to leave, the corner of her mouth purses up into a smile for the briefest moment before she turns. She seems to take her time leaving the store.  
It isn’t until the door closes after her that you release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding for the better part of the visit, and still it takes a couple of deep breaths to calm yourself.  
You kept thinking about the scar on her eyebrow. Was she a private investigator? Bounty hunter? Secret shopper in the wrong place at the wrong time? It hardly mattered since you didn’t even get her name, yet you indulged yourself briefly in imagining her occupation.

Thursday

The weather was more enjoyable the next day, welcoming a more steady flow of customers. Nearing the end of a mild lunch rush, Patrick, bussing the tables, calls to you discreetly — “Yo,” — and nods quickly towards the door. Frank, a regular who always tries to pay with nothing less than a $100 bill, saunters up to the door and yanks it open.  
“Oh Jesus,” You laugh quietly to yourself, “please try something today, asshole.” It’s a mumble far lower than the light music playing throughout. You keep focused on wiping down the bar area until he’s near the counter, when you look up brightly and open your mouth to greet him.  
“Uhhhh quad shot _expresso macchiatta_ extra foam, to go,” He says before you can say anything; he more so speaks in the direction of the register yet already has a hundred to hand you.  
You smile, laughing internally at the horribly butchered order by the middle aged Italian man. The smile turns into part of your greeting, of course. “Hey, Big Ben, Parliament,” It’s a movie reference you’d think a man his age would get; a half-mock, as his order has never changed, and probably never will. “And dude, you know I can’t break that,” You conclude in an apologetic tone.  
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”  
“No,” You say flatly, interrupting what you know would have been an exhausting tirade, “Frankie, you know I don’t carry big bills. It’s not an expensive drink, besides what you’re getting is basically a dry cappuccino but I choose not to charge you for that because I... don’t want to get a worse attitude than what you’re giving me now.”  
The bells over the front door signal another guest, and with a quick glance you see it’s your friend from yesterday, carrying a motorcycle helmet in the crook of her arm.  
“Alright wise-ass,” Frank’s voice pulls you back into the debacle, “whaddya want me to do? I got nothin’ smaller than this. I only get paid in hundreds every week.”  
_Pitiful,_ you think to yourself, _what a sad life to live, to be paid only in hundreds every week. _  
“It’s up to you, really. Maybe hit up a bank?” An innocent suggestion.  
As the woman approached, she eyed Frank suspiciously, almost waiting for him to fly off the handle. Funny enough, so were you.  
Your coworker casually returns behind the bar with you, for discreet backup.  
That got Frank’s attention.  
“Hey! S’cuse me, are you the manager?”  
“We both run the place,” You answer for Patrick, as he turns with a deer-in-headlights expression.  
You just want to get Frank out of here so you can prioritize the woman behind him.  
“Listen, don’t worry about it today. It’s on the house. Next time though-“  
“I should be able to pay for a goddamn cup of coffee as long as I have money.” The tone in his voice warns another tirade, but your mystery friend speaks up first, standing firm and steely with a thumb resting on a police badge on her belt you didn’t notice the day before. “Hey. She’s giving you free coffee. Not a big deal.” Though not directed at you, her icy leer gives you a chill.  
“Hey, you think this is ok? I can’t spend my well-earned cash at this establishment, officer?”  
“Detective. Get smaller bills. Still your money.” There’s a bite in her tone, and the way she levels her head above his seems like a final warning for him to leave peacefully, with or without his _macchiatta._  
Dutifully, and looking gratefully at the detective, you begin Frank’s drink. He wanders off briefly, not too far from the counter, but just far enough where you didn’t have to hear his nonsensical mumbling about ‘Obamacare’ and Starbucks, though this was not a Starbucks.  
You hide a grin and let out a quiet snort, masked by the sound of frothing milk.  
The woman is smiling, softly but knowingly, when you look back at her. “Diaz.”  
A fire warms your insides as you automatically fully associate the name with the face. “Detective Diaz. I apologize for that unpleasant encounter, and I thank you for your... soothing intervention.”  
“What can I say. I’m a people person.” Her smile is subtle and soft, and she waits very patiently on the same barstool as yesterday, rests her helmet on the seat next to her, and studies you as you work.  
“Here y’go Frank,” You meet him out from behind the line, and he leaves without a word after a genuine “Hope you have a good one,” from you.  
“... Or don’t,” Detective Diaz chortles in his general direction when you return to the bar.  
“Hah. I can’t tell him how to live his life, I respect that.”  
She laughs shortly with a corner of her mouth crinkled up, keeping eye contact while her face relaxed to a resting, slight smile. “I like what you gave me yesterday.”  
Your heart skips a beat at the imagined play-on words. “I knew you did. I have another blend I want you to try.”  
If you didn’t imagine it, her eyes lit up ever so briefly.  
You produce a clean espresso cup and saucer, and grind your selected roast. “I use exclusively Sumatran beans, but this one’s more on the lighter side. I prefer the lighter roasts fully washed to help brighten the acidity of the coffee.”  
“Mm. No idea what most of what you just said means. Charles might know,” The end of her sentence seemed like a thought aloud. But despite her lack in expertise, she examined your every move, then your arms and maybe shoulders, every so often flicking her eyes back up to yours.  
“If this Charles is anything of a coffee connoisseur, I should like to meet him someday.”  
The Detective’s eyes soften as she smiles. “The conditions of yesterday’s bet entailed that if I lost, I would have to drink the daintiest coffee from a chosen location. Charles ranked this place pretty high in his food blog.”  
“Please. I’m flattered.”  
It’s occurred to you that you haven’t introduced yourself yet. You do so, and tell Detective Diaz to ask for you when she comes in. Didn’t matter if you were on a break.  
“Thanks. I trust you with my coffee now. You’re basically in my inner circle.”  
You grin, eyeing mostly her, but being aware of the quality of the espresso produced by the machine.  
“Listen,” She begins with a softened, honest expression, “I’m sorry for being sort of a bitch yesterday. It’s not you, and it’s not the store. The plants are cute. And... the coffee’s good. I didn’t think I’d be into this.”  
If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have thought she was about to say something different. Either way, you appreciate the honesty. “Hm. I don’t blame you. Not everyone can handle the rich oxygen content from the abundance of flora.”  
The woman laughs with a grateful expression.  
Finally you present the new roast, and she lifts it ever so briefly to you with a “_Salud_”, to which you respond in kind. It’s gone soon enough, enough time for her to savor the flavor, but quick enough that the shots don’t sour.  
“Somehow even better than yesterday’s,” The Detective seems shocked admitting it herself.  
“I’m glad! I actually don’t like lighter roasts that much. I was hoping you would like it, give me some fresh perspective.”  
“As long as there’s more where that came from.”  
“For you, Detective? Always.” You allow a playful, innocent smile.  
She pauses, standing slowly as she places a five on the counter by the empty cup; it covers at least double what she got today. “... It’s Rosa,” She decides with a half-smile, though the smile’s mostly in her eyes.  
Your body burns upon given permission to use her first name, let alone hearing it. You didn’t realize your hand had come to rest above your heart, but you manage the words, “I certainly hope to see you again soon, Rosa.”  
“Bet on it.” Then she thanks you again, using your name, and the sound makes you weak in the knees. She strides out, helmet hanging loosely in her grasp.  
Rosa is gone before you knew it, and you’re still standing with your hand resting comfortably, absent-mindedly over your heart when Patrick asks knowingly,  
“... What was _that_?”  
But you just shake your head, a new goal in mind, and already you’re imagining scenarios on how to pose it: “I _need_ her number.”

**Author's Note:**

> maybe more to come? I literally do not know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
